


Weltschmerz

by WhisperingOrchard



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Color Psychology, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Romance, Terminal Illnesses, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingOrchard/pseuds/WhisperingOrchard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weltschmerz:  1. mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state</p><p>It was never supposed to end this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weltschmerz

**Author's Note:**

> I was wanting to experiment with subtlety, so I decided to attempt that with this fic. ~~In other words, I have no idea how this turned out~~.
> 
> The disease that Aoba contracts is meningococcal septicaemia; it's possible that Noiz was a carrier and gave it to Aoba, but I'll let you interpret this as you will.
> 
> Based on [this post](http://gumbydemographics.tumblr.com/post/79896950210/aoba-gets-a-debilitating-disease-and-ends-up-in). Unbeta'd as usual.

It’s only been twelve hours since the symptoms started.

When he enters the room, Noiz is smothered by the scent of antiseptics. It seems to permeate through every pore and crevice—seeping in through the walls, soaking his body in its sterile stench; his nose wrinkles distastefully at the chemical smell. It is unpleasant, he thinks, especially when combined with such barren white walls—walls as dreary and drab and _dead_ as the patients contained within them. He knows that this is an awful way of thinking, but he can hardly help it after so many countless hours spent in this achromatic prison. He wants nothing more to do with this—with the incompetent nursing staff, with the uncertainty looming over his head like a vulture in waiting. Never in his life has he felt so nauseated or so anguished than in these past few hours, and he can say with certainty that having feeling in his body from birth would have made no difference.

The door clicks shut behind him; a nurse turns from her clipboard and mutters to him that he has ten minutes. _Only ten?_ What difference would it make if it were twenty—if it were an hour? A day? Noiz has little intention of leaving Aoba’s side any longer, and to suggest that he do so is ludicrous and incredibly unlikely.

A thought crosses his mind in that moment, and he turns to the nurse again with the same dysphoric frown that has been permanently stitched onto his lips for hours. “How does he look?” he murmurs, careful to quiet his voice in case Aoba was sleeping across the room.

The bitter look that crosses over her face speaks scores more than her voice ever could. Nevertheless, she purses her lips and sucks in a short breath before proceeding with a standard reply. “We’ve done all that we can. I’m sorry—it’s up to him to fight it now.”

Her answer only tugs harder at the leaden weight dangling from his heart, but he nods despite himself and turns away from her. It was never up to Aoba—he knows that isn’t what she meant by those scripted syllables that so easily seemed to flit off of the tip of her tongue—but his mind is little more than a haze at this point. It was never up to Aoba—Aoba did not _choose_ to wake up this morning with a purple rash mushrooming beneath the pale skin of his arm, he did not _choose_ to fall unconscious during breakfast, gasping desperately for any sliver of oxygen as his lungs caved and swelled and—

“Noiz…?”

… So Aoba _is_ awake.

As a mild wince passes over his face, Noiz allows his jaw to lift ever-so-slightly, just enough to grant his eyes access to the fragile form lying mere meters away. His gaze idles upon the haggard face of his lover, bloodless and bleary and bereft of its usual vitality. Aoba’s lips quirk upward in a twitchy half-smile; he lifts a plum-splattered hand to coax the younger male nearer, and Noiz complies without another word on the matter. Gripping the dappled hand in his fingers, Noiz pulls a chair over with his free hand and slides it under his bottom—he sits down in a hurry and winds up half-hanging off of the side, but he hardly notices.  His lips part to speak, but he can manage little more than a strangled exhale as the words lodge back in the base of his throat.

Silence settles in between their bodies for a moment, neither ready to rupture this moment together with petty small talk; realistically, such pleasantries would be ideal, if only to ease their distraught minds, but neither male dares to speak. Instead, Noiz fixates his eyes on their conjoined hands, focusing his attention on the feeling of Aoba’s flesh beneath his fingers—the straining throb in the older male’s veins reverberates against his skin. Aoba is alive—Aoba is _alive_ , breathing and bleeding before him, and he will take whatever he is allowed in these moments together. He can’t permit himself to think otherwise—he _won’t_ think otherwise _._ Not as long as Aoba can still grant him that goofy grin, or grasp his quaking hand in return. Not as long as Aoba’s soul continues lick its way up the braided wick.

“Are you okay?” When Aoba does speak, it is rough and throaty, hoarse from undergoing such a grueling twelve hours, and with it his weak smile falters a little.

Noiz gives a deep snort at Aoba’s question—it’s far louder than he intends, but he can hardly help it. Aoba is ridiculous, and even in the face of death, some things will never change. “Don’t worry about me,” he mumbles in response, narrowing his eyes a bit at his lover’s lack of regard for his own health. Aoba Seragaki has always been a strange one—perhaps that is what enticed him in the beginning—but this is hardly the time. “Are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

At this, Aoba cracks another fragile smile and steadily lifts his jaw; his ashen lips have shriveled from the rapid, choppy breaths slipping in and out of his mouth and his chest heaves fiercely as it works to mend his broken body. The light in his azure irises has dulled to a sullen slate, and as Noiz dares to look upon the other’s blanched face, Aoba’s eyes slide shut. “It’s just really cold, that’s all… It’s so _white_ in here…”

The only response that Noiz can muster up is a low hum of acknowledgement; his hand tightens around Aoba’s, and his fingers absently trace the contour of the silver band that encircles the older male’s spackled skin—by request, Aoba was allowed to keep it on during treatment in the ICU. “… Our anniversary is next week.”

Aoba’s eyes open briefly in realization, squinting uncomfortably at the glare of the lights dangling high above his pulsating head. “Oh, it is… I completely forgot.” A tired mirth ghosts across his features; his attention is pulled down from the hazy glow of the ceiling as he peers down his arm towards their melded hands—his bears a tube that disappears beneath the skin. “Can’t believe it’s been—” a few short pants puff out as he regains breath, “—a year already….”

Nodding in silent agreement, Noiz finally readjusts himself on the edge of the chair. He leans forward to press his forehead softly to Aoba’s hand, gently sandwiching it between his skull and his palm; no further gestures are made, but this is far more than enough for him.  Seeing Aoba like this—spent, withered, all but dead atop this far-too-sterile mattress that bathes him in the stench of blood and chemicals… it’s far worse than he ever could have imagined.

The lump in his throat grows sour at the thought, and his eyes squeeze shut in a rare display of weakness; the lower rims of his eyelids burn savagely, but he does not yet allow the tears to leak out. To do so would be inconsiderate of Aoba, and in such times he wants nothing more than to make his lover as tranquil and unfazed as possible. That does not put him at ease, however, and the minute that Aoba’s hand slips out from within his grasp, his brow creases and his jaw clenches tight—cool fingertips caress his cheek, his temple, and all is lost between them. Little more is said for some time as Aoba’s nails tenderly flit from Noiz’s cheek to his scalp, gently gliding along each flaxen strand with an idle imprecision. “Did you want to go to dinner to celebrate?”

Noiz lifts his face again as the other speaks, forcing his tongue to work long enough to usher forth the multitude of words and half-words drifting about in his mind. “Yeah.” The tiniest of smirks graces his lips, tugging upward the left corner of his mouth; he cannot help it, despite his reluctance, and for once he thinks that it’s for the best. “And then it’s _double_ what we did on our wedding night.”

“Double— _what?_ ” Even with his present malady, Aoba manages an indignant splutter—the color in his cheeks returns, if only for a moment, and his breathing escalates even more so then before. “Honestly, you…”

Another silence settles between their bodies, and before either party can speak, the nurse reenters the room from the door in the back of the room. Her eyes meet Noiz’s for a second or so—he frowns but nods his head once at her and stands up from the little wooden chair. Aoba’s sallow hand falls from his scalp and back to the thin sheets of the hospital bed; the pleasant tingling beneath Noiz’s skull grows numb once more.

“I’ll let you know when the others get here,” Noiz murmurs under his breath—he leans forward, then, to capture Aoba’s lips in a swift, adoring kiss; the feeling of feeble breaths flutters along his skin as the other’s parched mouth breaks away from his, only to salvage it a second time, a third, again and again—each kiss chaste and frantic and all that Aoba can manage in his breathlessness.

In time, however, as Noiz reluctantly pulls back, Aoba’s eyelids drift gently shut again, and his exhaustion finally gets the best of him.

~w~w~w~

A week passes.

Hanging up with a sigh, Noiz lowers the coil from his face and leans his back against the frigid white wood of the bathroom door. As he meagerly tries to steady himself, his knees buckle beneath his weight and he slumps to the floor—his forehead drops dejectedly down to his palms as that familiar burning begins to flare up beneath his eyelids once again. This time, he lets the tears flow—rolling rivulets streak flushed cheeks as his face scrunches up and his throat constricts.

The burial has ended and the deed is done.

At least, that’s what he could make out from Koujaku’s detached coil call; the older man’s tone was haggard and it was obvious that he had spent the majority of the ceremony sobbing. It serves the Ribster right, really— _oh,_ how that insufferable bastard had rebuked him for not attending his own husband’s burial. Was Noiz truly so haughty—so “ _apathetic”_ that he could so readily eliminate Aoba from his life? Did Noiz even _love_ Aoba? These questions and more were hollered his way, and in a moment of indignation, Noiz had thrown his fist into Koujaku’s jaw. Neither said much more after that.

Nothing could have changed his mind—he refused to go to the funeral. Such ceremonies are ineffectual and accomplish little more than scarlet eyes and raspy cries; Aoba wouldn’t have wanted them to mourn so heavily for him. But, then, it isn’t just about the funeral, is it?—he couldn’t bring himself to so much as visit the body after learning of his lover’s demise. He would not look upon it, he would not touch it; he refused to remember the man who altered his life so immeasurably as a bloodless, frigid, _pained_ corpse. _It_ was no longer Aoba, and as he sits here half-naked on the pearl-white flooring of the master bathroom, he repeats the thought aloud once, twice, as if to reassure himself that he isn’t mistaken.

His chest stops heaving long enough for him to dress; he throws on a pair of Aoba’s old sweatpants and does not bother with a shirt. Scrubbing the streaks from his face with the back of his hand, Noiz drags the door open and steps out into their bedroom—it is still _their_ bedroom, and it will be so long as he lives here. His feet carry him sluggishly across the carpet and over to his dresser; he stops only to pick up the silver ring from the surface and slip it onto his hand.

As he slides the band onto his finger, however, his attention is tugged toward the wall opposite his body—then to the adjacent wall, then to the third and fourth—and his head begins to pound painfully again.  This isn’t going to work, he thinks with a scowl, and cradles his left hand to his anguished heart as he proceeds down the hall and into the garage.  Trembling in a desperate effort to ease himself, he approaches a workbench set up in the corner and grabs a can of paint—a vibrant pistachio green used only once to fix a chipped edge beside the front door.

He spends the next three days repainting every white-walled room in the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and other forms of feedback are greatly appreciated!  
> If you wish, you may follow my tumblr [here](http://quarrelswithquills.tumblr.com)


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